Apr 10, 2020
The bare blue trees and bleached wooden sky of April carve into me with knives of light. Something inside it reminds me of childhood— it is the light of the stalled time after lunch when clocks tick and hearts shut and fathers leave to go back to work and mothers stand at the kitchen sink pondering something they never tell. You remember too much, my mother said to me recently. Why hold onto all that? And I said, Where can I put it down? She shifted to a question about airports.
From The Glass Essay by Anne Carson
